


Ugly Face

by Jokerteeth (Moraearty)



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: M/M, Stabbing, non-con elements, one sided yearning, stabby mcshiv
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-22
Updated: 2015-05-22
Packaged: 2018-03-31 16:03:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3984199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moraearty/pseuds/Jokerteeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You must be quite the scamp."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ugly Face

**Author's Note:**

> I've decided to invent a line of clothing for those of us who like to fuck fully dressed. Any backers?

The water burns in a way that only cold wind and dry ice can as it sloshes down his throat, the bitter sting of bile going with it. A neat pile of clothes sit in the corner. He refills his glass from the trickling tap of his kitchen sink twice and downs them in rapid succession. There is no food in the house, no liquor to give the illusion of warmth either, not that he drinks, but the body in the corner watching him from two empty sockets makes him yearn for the acrid burn of whiskey. He downs another water and ignores the sting in his back teeth, or the words still ringing in his ears, or the blood pounding between his legs.

He should clean up, shower, get rid of the body, but he continues to stand, nauseous and ashamed and...

hard. 

“Please, please, I’ll do anything.”

Is this what Jim felt like when Oswald said those same words to him?

“Please. Please, I won’t-I won’t tell anyone I swear to god, I’m begging you, please!”

The pleas veered off script, but the tone remained the same.  
Why did he take off the boy’s gag again?

“I’ll do anythi-anything you want, just please god don’t kill me.”

The slurred, croaked words didn’t match the movements. A mock parody of only yesterday and he felt disconnected as bound hands clung to him, yanked at his belt and clawed at his zip. 

He could let the boy do this, a part of him had whispered. He could pretend the hair was blonde, the hot breath coming fast and hard was needy and wanton, not desperate to live. It would be so easy.

He closed his eyes, and just listened. And for just a moment it had been Jim’s mouth around him, Jim’s hair he was threading his fingers through. Jim, Jim, Jim.  
But then a sob, hiccuped and broken around him, had shattered the illusion and there he had stood, realization slamming the air from his lungs as he jerked back and away from the warmth of a mouth unwilling.

He had felt sick as he grabbed the knife, laying momentarily forgotten on the ratty counter. He felt sicker still when he plunged it into the screaming man before him again and again as if a blade could repair the damage already done. As if the slamming of the hilt against the now wet and unmoving body pressed into the closet corner could rid him of his shame. 

**_I would have done the same._** The thought itself isn’t shocking, but the images of Jim above him, eyes hard and expression full of disgust as he sinks to his knees, that does him in. He hunches forward palming himself viciously as he holds himself up on the counter. It doesn’t take long before he comes across the cheap particle board cabinet. 

The knife now sits in the sink, clean and untainted, so unlike himself.

No, he’s not got any alcohol, but he still giggles like a drunkard.  
Like a madman.

“Do you know the difference between you and I,” he smiles, a sober thing.

“I’m still alive.”


End file.
